


You've Gotten Into My Bloodstream

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel is all ready for bed after a stressful day, when a surprise visitor appears. Title is from a Stateless song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Gotten Into My Bloodstream

Bahorel, after spending his day wiping down table tops and cleaning drunk men’s vomit, was more than ready to sleep as he fell face first onto his single bed in his too small bedroom. He’d planned to go out, release some of his pent up energy on darts and barfights, but according to his boss, working last minute shifts to cover for some 16 year old piss brain who wanted the night off to watch My Little Pony and wank off whilst praying his mum stayed downstairs (Bahorel hoped that these were two separate, unrelated events) was a better use of his time. So instead, he worked the shift, got a few extra coins at the end of the day, and went home frustrated. Just as he was drifting off, a single knock, followed by a dull thud pulled him back into consciousness. _What the fuck_ , he thought to himself as he reluctantly dragged himself up and went over to his door. He swung it open to find – oh.

Grantaire was sitting on the floor, leaning against the doorframe, his breaths coming shallow and quick. Bahorel felt his stomach drop as he saw him, clutching a half empty bottle of whiskey to his chest.

Bahorel had woken up at Grantaire’s apartment that morning. He’d noticed the red X on the calendar. Today was supposed to mark three months sober. Yet here he was, clearly more intoxicated than should be humanly possible, crying about something or other and leaving Bahorel to clean up after him.

“Wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Bahorel looked down at him, an eyebrow raised, not really expecting a coherent answer. Grantaire seemed to only just notice him towering over his dishevelled figure.

“Wha- I- uh… I fucked. I got sad. I fuck…” His sentence trailed off as he toppled onto his side, curling in on himself. He didn’t appear to notice the booze tipping out of the bottle onto his shirt, and – shit – onto Bahorel’s carpet.

“Oh no you don’t, come on, up you get,” Bahorel said as he bent down, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s waist and pulling him upright. He pried the bottle out of Grantaire’s grasp, admittedly with difficulty, and set it on the table that sat in the room, in front of the couch and opposite the TV. The two of them had spent countless hours on that sofa, watching shitty films and eating whatever Bahorel had cooked for them. Bahorel was an amazing cook, but apparently no restaurants in Paris seem to agree. That’s why he was stuck working at the bar, until someone hired him for a decent job. He’d often make spaghetti, because it was fucking hilarious to watch Grantaire attempt to eat it without it spilling down his shirt, though Grantaire usually just rolled his eyes at Bahorel’s laughter and tossed spaghetti at him. Yeah, food fights weren’t exactly a rare occurrence in his apartment. Of course, they always ended the same way. No one wants to sit around wearing food covered clothes, so the clothes would end up on the floor and the two men would end up in bed finding new ways to keep warm when they didn’t have the comfort of fabric on their backs. Not that they were a thing – they _totally_ weren’t a thing – but who can resist a good fuck with a friend, right?

Grantaire was fucking bladdered, Bahorel struggled to get him into his bedroom. But, Bahorel is strong, and Grantaire wasn’t exactly resisting, just not helping. So, eventually, Bahorel managed to throw him onto his single bed, over the covers. Grantaire didn’t seem to notice anything was different, he just carried on babbling about how he fucked… something. After lying him on his side and pulling the covers over his shaking body, Bahorel felt confident enough to leave him to get a glass of water and a bucket. He came back as quickly as he could, putting the water on his bedside table and the bucket right where Grantaire could reach, should he need to get some of the booze out of his system.

“Don’t suppose you could tell me how much you’ve had, mate?” Bahorel stared down at his friend with his arms folded across his chest, unsurprised by the grunts he received in response. “You’re a fucking idiot. We’ll talk tomorrow, I guess. I’ll stay up to make sure you don’t die in your sleep, and then I’ll go to work on no sleep and get fired for doing a shitty job, all to look after your sorry ass. Why am I even telling you this? You can’t understand a word I’m saying, and like hell you’ll remember it tomorrow anyway. I’m not even mad at you to be honest. I mean, I am fucking angry, but you know, relapse happens. It wasn’t all your fault. Probably. I mean, I don’t know what happened. But whatever. The point is, is that I’m fucking angry that you ruined my night, but I’ll continue to help you to sobriety. If you stop being such an ass, that is. I’m talking to a fucking paralytic slob.” He sighed and rolled his eyes, as he walked slowly to the door. He grabbed an old t-shirt from the floor, and threw it onto the bed. “Wear that if you need.” He stepped out of the room, and was just about to pull the door to when he heard somewhat of a yelp coming from his bed.

He groaned as he turned back in, expecting to see an empty bed and a Grantaire on the floor. Instead, he saw Grantaire sitting up, staring at him intently.

“Promise me.” Grantaire rasped. Bahorel stepped into the bedroom properly, wearing a look of confusion as he closed the door behind him. “Promise you won’t tell Bahorel I drank he’ll be so mad he’ll hate me he’ll hate me I love him and he hates me FUCK-“ Grantaire was interrupted from his near hysterics with a slap to the face. Bahorel hadn’t wanted to get violent, but it seemed to be his only option.

“Yeah, okay, I won’t tell Bahorel and he won’t hate you, go to sleep, fuck…” Bahorel pushed him back down and sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. He wrapped a spare blanket around himself, it wasn’t as warm as his duvet and he couldn’t afford heating, but he couldn’t let Grantaire freeze, and he couldn’t sleep next to him, not like this.

“I love him he doesn’t love me he just wants to fuck but I don’t just want to fuck I want to like cuddle and give each other presents on Valentines day and go for meals together and hold hands I love him why doesn’t he love me…” This time Grantaire cuts himself off, by rolling face first onto his pillow and snoring softly.

Once again, Bahorel wraps the blanket tighter around him. He stares at the man sleeping, unable to tear his eyes away, because this isn’t happening, they were friends, they were so not boyfriends, and they were so not in love. No way. Bahorel was so not in love with the way he stroked Bahorel’s arms, or the little birth mark on his back that no one else knows about, or the freckles that litter his face, or the way he’d smile whenever Bahorel would push him and call him “fuckface”, because how else would he show affection? No, he definitely didn’t love him. No way.


End file.
